We are strolling the boardwalk in Chalkida, the coastal town where Zenetta was born. The wide cement walk is lined with empty benches facing the inlet. It is April, the end of the off season, the time Zenetta insisted we come. Three women, one ancient, one middle aged, one young, all dressed in tailored black skirts and matching jackets walk towards us. "Americanos," we hear them say to each other after we've passed.
"How do they know?" my mom asks, camera poised, in her t-shirt, jeans, bright white tennis shoes, and visor.
"How do they know?" my mom asks, camera poised, in her t-shirt, jeans, bright white tennis shoes, and visor.
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